


that one where sam puts on a skirt for the first time

by rei_c



Series: The Genderfluid(ity) 'Verse [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Absent John, Birthday Presents, Caring Dean Winchester, Consensual Underage Sex, Crossdressing, Crossdressing Sam, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Gender Issues, Genderbending, Jewelry, Kissing, Legal Drama, M/M, Makeup, Nail Polish, Pre-Stanford, Protective Dean Winchester, Relationship Negotiation, Shopping, Somnophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 02:58:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5895484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean decides that Sam's fourteenth birthday deserves a big present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that one where sam puts on a skirt for the first time

Dean starts to steal nail polish and make-up, loves the look on Sam's face when Sam gets home from school or the library or soccer practice and sees palettes and pencils and bottles waiting for him. He lights up, drops his backpack like it's the last thing in the world he cares about, and goes to Dean, first, before anything, clings to Dean and kisses him wet and desperate, pouring his gratitude into Dean's mouth for Dean to swallow down and hold on to. 

Only after, when Dean lets go and gently pushes Sam in that direction, does Sam go over to the new shit that Dean doesn't really understand except to know that Sam can do some fucking awesome things with it. He picks up every item carefully, studies each one in turn, and Dean can only stand there and palm his dick as Sam treats ninety-nine cent drugstore crap like something sacred. 

They're careful around their dad, of course. He checks their duffels every so often to make sure they're packed correctly and not carrying unnecessary shit around with them, and he keeps a razor-close eye on them when he's around. Dean ends up sewing hidden compartments in both his and Sam's bags and Sam wraps the make-up in bandages and socks so they won't make noise banging together as they move, mercilessly tossing the things he doesn't like and only keeping his favourites. 

//

For Sam's fourteenth birthday, Dean goes all out. He heads to WalMart, wishes he had more money than the scraps he's picked up on street corners and odd-jobs, but leaves with two bags and feels like maybe this was a bad idea, maybe he's gone too far. It's just nerves, he tells himself. His pep talk doesn't help all that much. 

When Sam gets home from school, he looks first at Dean, something in his shoulders relaxing, then at the coffee table where Dean usually sets down Sam's presents. There's nothing there and even though Sam's face doesn't drop or his eyes don't change, there's a sense of palpable tension in Sam, now. 

"It's -- I'm not sure if," Dean says. Sam looks at him, puzzled as he kicks off his sneakers, and Dean takes a deep breath, starts over. "It's your decision, but -- your present's in the bedroom." 

Sam's eyes narrow as he licks his lips; Dean's eyes drop from Sam's gorgeous, fox-tilted cat eyes to those lips, still full with youth and pink like the best blush covering Sam's cheeks. Dean still won't let them do anything anal, says that Sam's too young, but there are times, like now, when Dean looks at Sam -- candy-pink lipstick making Sam's lips fuller, ripe with invitation, tweezed-perfect brows, the faintest hint of black around his eyes -- and thinks maybe fifteen, rather than sixteen. 

"In the bedroom," Sam echoes, cautious as he steps off the mat by the door. "Should I --" 

"Yeah," Dean says, exhales. "No sense in waiting. I mean, if you're -- or not." 

With one last puzzled look in Dean's direction, Sam disappears down the narrow hallway to the bedroom. Dean stands stock-still, eyes closed as he hears the crinkling of two plastic bags. There's nothing after that, no sound at all. Dean gives it a second, starts to get worried, but before he moves, Sam does. A moment later, the bathroom door slams shut and locks. 

Dean bites his bottom lip and waits for the shower to come on before his feet take him to the bedroom. He has to know, has to see if he's ruined Sam's birthday, but when he gets to the doorway, relief and such fucking _need_ fills him to such an extent that he has to hold onto the wall to stay upright. 

The bags are empty. 

//

It takes two hours for Sam to do -- whatever. Two hours of Dean pacing with nervous energy, trying to focus on cleaning weapons but giving up the third time he cuts himself with a knife, trying not to think about what's going on in the bathroom, trying not to imagine anything. He bought everything he could think of but he's not sure how far Sam wants to go, if this is more of a comfort thing or something permanent Sam wants to do or even if Sam's just experimenting. Dean doesn't really care. He has thought, honestly, at night, when it's dark and safe to jerk off watching Sam sleep, that maybe he'd be a little weirded out if Sam wanted, like, surgery or something -- but he'd get used to it. He -- she -- would still be Sam, and Sam's who Dean wants, it's got nothing to do with how as long as it's _Sam_.

Dean's washing dishes when he hears the bathroom door squeak open. He drops the glass he's currently got soaped up; thankfully the sink's full of hot water so it merely splashes up bubbles and dirty dishwater onto Dean instead of shattering. Dean waits, hands on the edge of the sink, and tells himself to calm down, to stay in control, to be sure and make Sam happy. 

"Dean?" Sam asks. He sounds unsure, hesitant but hopeful, as he asks, "Do you -- I mean, I'm ready for you to -- will you turn around? Please?" 

"Yeah," Dean says. 

Dean takes one last deep breath, dries his hands, and then turns around. 

Sam is fourteen and he looks it, but he doesn't exactly look like Sam -- or, he does, just -- different, more like a fourteen-year-old Samantha than a fourteen-year-old Samuel. He's put more make-up on than normal and it's a little unsteady, a little heavy-handed, but Sam'll get the hang of it; he has the eye of an artist and the medium's new right now but it won't be for much longer. 

Dean's eyes drop, then, and start at Sam's feet, the mary-janes Dean found on sale, the ruffled socks, the clean-shaven legs and knees showing off just a few cuts from the razor. Sam's wearing the skirt Dean picked out, knee-length and light brown, and the cream-coloured shirt hugs Sam's waist tight and his chest even tighter, enough to show that Sam's foregone the bra Dean bought. He's wearing the jewellery, though: cheap little fake-gold bracelet and matching necklace, and he smells vaguely of lilacs and vanilla, even from where Dean's standing. 

Or -- no. At some point, Dean stepped closer, closed all the distance between them, is close enough to look down at Sam and reach out, curl one of Sam's strands of hair around a finger. "God," Dean says, and his voice is rough, husky. "You're fucking gorgeous, sweetheart." 

"Do you like it?" Sam asks. 

"Do you?" Dean asks, in return. "I like it if you do." 

Sam smoothes out his skirt, looks down at the floor as he mumbles, "Yeah." 

Dean puts one finger under Sam's chin, lifts and waits for Sam to look at him, to meet his eyes, before he asks, "You sure?" 

"Feel more -- me," Sam says. "Comfortable. But it's kinda weird, too. I don't know if I." 

He stops there and Dean pulls Sam close, into as tight a hug as he can manage. It's definitely tight enough for Sam to feel how hard Dean is and squeak at the revelation, though it does loosen something in Sam. "I just wanted you to try it," Dean says. "You don't gotta -- this ain't something I'm asking for, okay? So don't think I won't want you if you're back in briefs and a t-shirt in five minutes. I just thought, for your birthday, so you can see." 

Sam gives into the hug, molds himself to Dean's body, tucks himself tight and close. Dean's never felt so much like a big brother before and that should be weird -- this is still Sam and Dean's _always_ been Sam's big brother. Something about it makes sense, though, and it's not that Sam's cross-dressing or trying to be feminine or anything like that. It's the fact that Sam trusts Dean enough to let Dean see him like this, to be this open, this vulnerable. It makes Dean want to wrap Sam up in cotton wool and protect him from the world.

"Thanks," Sam murmurs, and then stands on his toes, tilts his head upward and closes his eyes, silent demand for a kiss. 

Dean will always give Sam everything Sam asks for and most of the things Sam doesn't ask for. This is no exception and it's not a hardship, not when he presses his lips to Sam's and tastes lipstick, smells the dabs of perfume Sam put over the pulse points in his neck. Sam opens his mouth to Dean, gives a little moan as Dean enters his mouth, takes everything Sam has to offer. 

"God," Dean says, when his head's gone dizzy with the need for air. "Just wanna -- you're so -- _fuck_ , Sam." 

"I've been thinking," Sam says. 

Dean opens his eyes, looks at his little brother, and can't help but grin at how thoroughly Sam's lipstick is smeared. "Uh-oh." 

Sam swats at him, says, "Shut up, jerk. I'm being serious now, okay?" 

"Okay," Dean says, and he thumbs the corner of Sam's lips, smearing the lipstick even more. "Serious. Got it." 

"You know how Dad took us down to Mexico to go after that chupacabra once, right?" Sam asks. Dean nods and Sam swallows, says, "What if we could find another hunt in Mexico? Something this summer?" 

Dean cocks his head, narrows his eyes. "Why?" he asks, suspicious now. Sam never likes moving for hunts and he _definitely_ never wants to actively search one out. 

"You won't fuck me until I'm sixteen," Sam says, "because that's the age of consent in a lot of states. But the oldest minimum age in Mexico is fourteen. We wouldn't have to wait at all." 

"Sam," Dean says. 

His brother cuts him off, says, quickly, "Or Canada! They have an exemption to the age of consent for people between fourteen and sixteen. If someone's five years older than them or less, and -- Dean, you're only four years older than me, so it would be okay." Dean doesn't say anything, can't, and Sam looks desperate now, sounds it as he says, "We wouldn't have to wait, Dean. We could -- I -- you could fuck me like we both want _now_ and we wouldn't be breaking any laws and _please_ , I --" 

Dean cuts his brother off with a kiss, calms Sam down before he runs a hand through Sam's hair, looks at all that barely-banked want and need and love written all over Sam's face. He wants nothing more than to agree, and his argument for waiting _had_ mostly been based on legality; Sam's found a loophole, though, and as sexy as Dean thinks Sam's going to grow up, there's nothing quite as amazing as Sam's mind. 

Fourteen is too young; Dean knows that even if he's not precisely sure how healthy it is for fourteen-year-olds to engage in anal sex. Fingers, though -- fingers could work, but then Dean has to find a way to limit himself to _that_ when he knows himself well enough to know that one feeling of Sam tight and hot around him will be more than enough to blow all of his self-control out the fucking window. 

"Fifteen," Dean says. "I'll compromise with you: we'll only wait one more year, rather than two. But I -- Sam, as much as I want to, you're -- one more year. Okay?" 

Sam looks like the cutest mixture of disappointed and triumphant as he nods, says, firmly, "One more year and then for my fifteenth birthday present, you'll make sure we have lots of lube and condoms. Deal?" 

Dean chuckles, presses a kiss to Sam's hair, smells lilacs, says, "Deal."

//

Dad comes back a week later, apologises for missing Sam's birthday and gives Sam a new pair of boots and a birthday cake before telling them to pack up. Sam eats a slice of cake, thanks his dad for the boots, then disappears to the bedroom. 

Dean follows, as quickly as he can get away with, and finds Sam cutting up the skirt and shirt from his _real_ birthday into strips. 

"He'd never let me take them," Sam says, voice clipped, as sharp and tearing as the edges of the scissors. "Not like this. But I'm not leaving them behind, so we'll use them as rags or bandages or something. And I'm not leaving the jewellery, either." 

"I'll keep the necklace for you," Dean says, "and you wear the bracelet." 

Sam looks up at Dean, looks over to where the bracelet and necklace are hanging off the doorknob. "He won't like it," Sam says, and he sounds so matter-of-fact about it, about their dad refusing to understand who Sam is, really, that Dean gets absolutely furious. 

"I'll deal with it," he says, swears. "Wear the damn bracelet." 

//

Sam never takes the bracelet off, not even when it starts to tarnish, not until the day he leaves for Stanford.


End file.
